“Must you talk?” Sands said dryly.
“That’s my business. Or it used to be my business. I have an idea that Joey no longer loves me.”
“You phoned him from the hotel?”
“That’s right. He told me to go to hell.”
“We’ll go back now and square it,” Sands said.
“No, thank you,” Stevie said. “You think I want any of my friends to see me pally with a policeman? I’ll square it myself, if you’ll drop me there.”
“Still don’t want to look at pictures?”
“No.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Go ahead. Won’t do you any good. There’s no chance of proving anything against Johnny Heath.”
They drove in silence until Sands pulled the car up to the curb in front of Joey’s. The doorman stifled a yawn and came over. When he saw who was in the car he said, “For Christ’s sake. Where have you been?”
“Riding,” Stevie said. “With my great and good friend Mr. Sands. Good night, Mr. Sands. See you at the morgue.”
Sands sat and watched the two of them walk under the marquee up to the door of the club, Stevie slight and elegant in evening clothes, the doorman broad and tall in a green and gold coat to match the marquee. Their voices floated back to him, but the words were indistinguishable.
The car jerked ahead as it always did when Sands was tired and irritable. The dashboard clock said two. Joey’s would be closed in fifteen minutes or so. Time to detail a man to follow Jordan if he hurried and Jordan didn’t.
He stepped on the gas and was at headquarters in ten minutes.
There were three police men lolling at the main desk. When they saw Sands they tried to look busy by changing their expressions and hiding the deck of cards.
“Don’t bother, boys,” Sands said grimly. “Crime does not pay.”
“There is no crime,” Sergeant Havergal announced. “Tonight nobody is even beating his wife. There are no dogs howling and no suspicious characters loitering and not one spinster has heard strange noises downstairs.”
“In that case,” Sands said, “you can look up the photo file on an accident two years ago. Involved two Heaths, Geraldine Smith and Philip James. Smith was killed. Make it snappy.”
Havergal sped out of the room.
To the men in plain clothes Sands said, “You know the Club Joey, Stern?”
“Officially, no,” Stern replied, grinning. “But in my off hours I have been forced to attend.”
“You know Jordan, the master of ceremonies so-called?”
“I’ve seen him.”
“Okay. Take a car. He’s at the Club now. Keep him in sight. I want to know where he spends the night.”
“When do I report?”
“Phone me at home as soon as he goes to roost.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he had gone out, Sands said to the remaining policeman, “Any report from Higgins for me?”
“Yes, sir. Inspector Higgins telephoned in two hours ago and detailed a man to watch one hundred and ten Charles Street. The man is there now. Inspector Higgins is at home and wants you to phone him.”
“All right. Get him for me.”
Sands listened to Higgins talk for five minutes, said, “Good work,” and hung up.
Havergal came back carrying some pictures, clipped together.
Sands passed up the first two, showing the wrecked car from two angles. The third was the body of a girl lying on its back. The girl’s clothes were torn and the blood on her face and neck showed clearly on the print. She had been badly cut by glass. But there was no glass.
Sands looked at it again, swearing softly to himself.
“Who took these pictures, Havergal?”
“Sergeant Breton. Bill Haines was on his holiday at the time.”
“In the morning tell Bill to make two more prints of this one and enlarge them.”
“Anything the matter?” Havergal asked curiously. “Look at it.”
Havergal looked for some time. “I can’t see anything.”
“No. Neither did anyone else. I’m going home.”
Chapter 13
Joey’s customers were leaving. Half of them were drunk and the other half were pretending to be drunk. They jostled at each other and pushed their way to the checkroom. A fat woman without a brassiere spied Stevie at the door and flung herself toward him, crying shrilly. “Stevie! Darling! I missed you! Honestly, I came here just to see you, Stevie!”
Stevie grinned at her and hoped that Joey was within hearing distance and the lady’s husband wasn’t.
But the lady’s husband was. He strode after her, a fat man who looked as if he’d be hairy under his clothes.
“Lilian,” he said. “Stop acting like a whore.”
“Who’s a whore?” Lilian said. “You son of a bitch hairy ape.”
“You’re drunk. You’re a drunken whore.”
“Who’s a whore?”
“You are.”
Lilian stared at him, blinking her eyes slowly. “Who did you say was a whore?”
Stevie disentangled his coat sleeve from her hand and slipped away past the checkroom in to Joey’s office. The office was empty and he sat down in the swivel chair to wait for Joey.
He felt funny, almost dazed. Too many things had happened, that queer man Sands — and mixing beer and scotch — and thinking about Geraldine again. He couldn’t have looked at that picture with Geraldine’s face dead and covered with blood.
Someone knocked softly at the door.
Stevie said, “Come in,” and the door opened slowly and Mamie came through it.
When she saw it was Stevie her eyes widened and she looked scared.
“You,” she said uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for the marster,” Stevie said.
“But I...”
“But you what?” Stevie said in a hard voice. “Thought I was in jail maybe? You’ve been drooling maybe?”
She jerked her head in a defiant gesture and pulled her coat around her. It was the coat Tony had given her, she’d worn it tonight specially. There weren’t many nice things to remember and the coat was one, with its real silver fox collar.
“I had to tell them what I knew,” Mamie said in a whine. “That goddamn policeman...”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just what happened, what you did and what you said. Because after all you said it.”
“You slobbering bitch.”
“I... don’t you dare to...”
“Wanted to pin a murder charge on me, did you? You thought I’d be the goat for Murillo. You knew Murillo had done it, didn’t you?” He got up and walked round the desk toward her. “Didn’t you?”
“You’re crazy,” she said in a strangled whisper. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll...”
“You’ll scream,” Stevie said with a laugh. But he stayed where he was. “I told you last night that I knew where Tony was. You thought I was kidding. I knew where he was because I saw him. Get that, Mamie, I saw him. He was running like hell.”
“You’re lying.”
“And I bet you’ve got no idea how that guy can run — after committing a murder.”
She half turned as if the suggestion of running was too powerful to resist. But when she had opened the door she didn’t run. There were too many people, and no place to run to, and no reason for running.
She turned back. “Did you tell anybody?”
“Not a soul,” Stevie said pleasantly. “I’m only telling you so you can get used to the idea of being a rope-widow. After all, Mamie, we’re pals, aren’t we? Maybe you did try to frame me for a murder, but I can let by-gones be by-gones — if it doesn’t happen again.”